Good Day

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Thriller and Horror, transgressional violence
Walking home gets dangerous. Written 1992

Submitted: February 12, 2017

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Submitted: February 12, 2017



Today had been a good day. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, it just had.

He had a twenty minute stroll to the railway station that would convey him to the other railway station from which he had another twenty minute walk to the hole in a wall that he named home. When he got there, he knew, his good day would end in silence and dinner for one. He bustled that encroaching little snippet into the corner of his mind marked “IN” and slipped it to the bottom of the pile already there. A quick glance told him that he’d have to start work on that pile at some time, but he filed that thought too.

“Fucken good day!” He mused aloud, not noticing the three hungry carrion birds, dressed in their Thursday night best of jeans and flannelette shirts, loping sharp-eyed and vicious just behind. Didn’t hear their masked chuckles as they pondered his immediate future. Didn’t smell the rank odour of their last meal as it wafted from the toes of their menacingly unkempt steel caps.

The little old drunk that slept in the sheltered doorway of some building that he didn’t know the name of, scurried back to the darkness of his warren like usual. Only it wasn’t like usual.  He melded and reshaped, became a part of the brickwork and was gone.

Nary a second glance did this draw from our moseying pawdner. Not yet removed from his good day, he filed that too.

The carrion birds, ravens black as pitch, were diverted momentarily at the sight of the codger and sought an easy glut. Gone. Never mind. They went back to circling effortlessly on the currents above their erstwhile flesh feast.

The icy wind of danger from the mountains of fear to the west caught the window of his thought cottage open, rattling the tasteful vertical blinds of recognition. He turned to face his would-be attackers as they plummeted gleefully to ground-zero, talons outstretched, obsidian beaks grinning mirthlessly.

Flailing his arms like some bizarre Meccano creation, he caught the sound of a dog howling, only to realise he was screaming. The razor point beaks tearing at his flesh, the chemically honed talons scrabbling for a firm hold, the cackling and hoarse croaking of the nearly sated scavengers sent him adrift on a frozen lake of terror. He could see the hair cracks widening to form morasses about him, hear the air splintering with the ice’s own cries of pain as it further tore itself asunder.

He lay there; unwilling, unable to move, on one last drift of ice. The frigid, murky depths roiling, beckoning him to their bosom.

He knew the attack had ceased. He knew he couldn’t feel his tender meat being stripped from his bones any longer. He also knew that something was not as it should be after such.

The three carrion birds stood back from where dinner had moments ago been, ruffled their feathers and looked about as if checking the weather. None believed what they had witnessed. Like when you see someone disappear into a wall, it was dismissed.

He lay there in the desolate waste, completely naked, afloat on a slab of ice the size of his dining room table. He was not cold; he knew he should be and fear was something he had never known. The sky kept watch from above as the black waters begged him to join them. He started to sweat now. The health club sauna came to mind. The water was now crystal blue and twinkling like Alpine cigarette ads. “Swim with us.” Sang the tropical lagoon to a gentle rhythm section.

He rose to his feet, steady foundations under a mighty tower. He was Atlas and Hercules. Defender of the realm. What a great day.

As he leaned into the dive of the most regal swan, the blackness and ice filled his vision and no further thought entered his head as he was consumed. No splash or playback of bubbles marked his entry, just blackness. The only sound was the muffled voice that bid him welcome.

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